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Friday, July 10, 2015

Fruitentiary

Today is Secret Subject Swap Day! This week 12 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

oh man...this. when I saw this in the prompt I said some 4 letter words. ha. But, I channeled my inner Tom Robbins on this, and I think it turned out alright.

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Strawberry is jolted awake from fractured sleep by the murmurings of those around her. She adjusts

her position and whispers to the rest of the group, “is it time? Again?”

No one gives her a distinct answer with all of them worried about their own red skin and tiny seeds, so she listens closely trying to decipher what else may be happening above the noise in the small green plastic prison she has been living in for the last few days.

She hears it. The whirring of that thing, the execution chamber. Her destiny, it seems, is to be wrongfully accused of bruising her neighbor (it wasn’t her fault!) and to become a smoothie. She shudders uncontrollably and tries to push herself to the very bottom of the crate. It’s no use inside the cramped quarters, but in her attempts, she hears a smallish banana next to the crate crying.

“Shhhh…. It’s going to be okay, Banana. Don’t cry,” she says even as she is pushed harder and harder against the crate as the rest of the berries above her fought for the bottom position.

Banana’s tears come harder and faster then. Strawberry looks timidly toward the refrigerator door expecting it to snatch open at any time with hands reaching for the crate and the banana, for it all to be over in the pretentious buzz of organic health obsession.

“I-i-it’s NOT going to be okaaaaaayyyy,” the tiny yellow crescent sobs.

Strawberry knows deep down that the kid, he can’t possibly be older than his teens, is probably right. There isn’t much that can be done, but crying definitely isn’t going to help things, so she knows she has to calm him down. She listens again searching above the cries and bickering that has broken out above and below her for the sound of the blender. She thinks she hears a squeaky sort of crack when that godawful bright light shines down from above. Fuck, she thinks. It’s got to be time. Why couldn’t I go out with some sort of dignity instead of shoved in this crate only to be sliced and diced so some guy with a stupid looking mustache can pretend like he’s oh so hip. She squints against the light expecting at any moment to feel the lurch of the crate being carried out by the hands of the mustachioed man in red suspenders, but he reaches for the drawer instead pulling out some kale? Or maybe spinach? And a mango.

She really isn’t impressed by that combination.

For a moment she is stuck on considering just what kind of person blends together mango and spinach when a good heaving wail from the banana grabs her attention again.

“Kid, hey… Come on, now. Crying isn’t going to fix anything. Let’s think this through. Maybe we can get out of here.” Inside, she knows there’s no real chance, but maybe just maybe she can make the last few hours for the banana a little more comfortable anyway. At least it would give her something to do while the rest of the berries whisper and mumble and gossip all around her with their conspiracy theories about Monsanto putting them in line to be executed by hipster for being organic.

“What are you on about?” the banana finally says with a sniffle.

God, she thinks, he acts more like he’s 10 than a teen, but surely he can’t be that young. No one in their right mind would pick a banana that young. She doesn’t say anything of the sort,though, and ignores the sarcastic tone in his voice instead saying carefully and calmly, “I mean, that maybe we can come up with some sort of plan to open the door. It can’t be that difficult.” She thinks he will most certainly know she’s lying by the sound of her voice, but shockingly, he seems to think it over for a moment. His crying stopped anyway, and the silence seems full instead of empty and awkward. Plot formulation has impregnated the silence.

“Watcha think we can do, roll a big bottle off the shelf, then? Maybe the door will pop open?”

“It could, but first we have to work out how to get me out of here and whether there’s a bottle that’s big enough to do the job.”

“Why can’t you just climb out?”

“All the other berries are in here, too, and I can’t get out with them in the way.”

“Well. Tell ‘em to move it.”

“They don’t have anywhere to go, kid.”

“I’m not a damn kid.”

“That’s the least of our problems right now. Let’s not worry about arguing and get something sorted out.”

“Whatever, old lady.”

“…”

“I thought you said that’s the least of our problems, eh? Works both ways doesn’t it?”

“Fair enough. Can you tip the crate I’m in?”

“I can give it a shot. No promises, o’course.”

Banana rocks himself closer to the crate trying his best to push the full crate of berries forward on the shelf so maybe a few would spill out and give Strawberry a better chance at freedom. He tries and tries and tries. Strawberry can’t see much in the darkness of the fridge, but she can hear him grunting from exhaustion and feel a slight sway of the flimsy plastic crate from time to time which causes panicked cries from above her.

“You push from in there towards the door while I push the crate from behind back here,” he says.

So she gives it her best shot. Again and again they count to three and both push at the same time. She can feel the crate give a little each time, but neither of them has enough force to completely tip the crate.

After a while the two of them, breathing heavy and utterly drained, take a break from the effort. There are no words to share, desperation having stolen any sentiments that could be expressed in such a moment. Strawberry reaches blindly with a leaf through a hole in the crate finding the banana. The two of them fall asleep feeling a little less alone which is all they could ask for in the last days of life.

About Me

I write, knit (sort of), love music, dance when no one is looking, snort when I laugh, talk about sex, consider myself a feminist, snore, sigh heavily when I see a bearded man, and make some badass desserts.